


Stop Being so Honest with Yourself

by Midnigtartist



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a dick, Jefferson's POV, M/M, Masturbation, Modern Era, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Talking During Sex, You'll see what I mean, alex is there but only kinda, i guess?????????, i should be working on other things oh well, jefferson has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 04:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: Frustrated, pissed off, and too hot to sleep, Jefferson realizes that it's all Alexander's fault





	Stop Being so Honest with Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE AN ACTUAL FIC ON THE WAY BUT I HAD TO WRITE THIS FIRST OKAY. (unbetad so be kind)

_ “Fuck-!” _

With the chock sound wrenched from the back of his throat, Jefferson lurches forward, back bowing as he falls, face first into his mattress. The silky sheets rise up to smother him,  nose buried deep within the folds. Wet breath fans out across the bed dressing. His hot breath damping the linen as he pants, hard, gasping through a lungful of feathers and breathing in the stale smells. 

The sheets smell strongly of his lavender laundry detergent, of skin, the acrid smell of sweat and iron, though that last one may just be in his head. The stench of his office still clings to Thomas and it's seeped its way into the bed as well. Fresh ink from broken pens, dark roast coffee and stale caramel, wood varnish, and, most importantly and most prominently, his own pathic need. It’s an overpowering stench, more potent even than the brimstone in his veins. Pungent sulfur fury that causes unbecoming splotches of heat to rise in his cheeks and foul smoke to billow from his nose in haze, like an ancient dragon, hunching over its hoard of treasure. The sour smell leaks like sweat from his pores, dousing him in shame and frenzied, bitter lust. 

Thomas groans, loses a punched out gasps like he’s taken a crowbar to the ribs, and ferverishly tucks the pillow tighter between his trembling thighs. There’s a reason for this. A reason he’s hunched over, naked in the middle of his spacious bed in the waning hours of the evening, blunt nails carving trenches into the landscape of his duvet. It's the same reason that’s been hounding the rest of the Hill for reform for nearly three years now.

Alexander Hamilton is a self righteous, self serving, self made man, and an utter plague on the lives of everyone who's had the misfortune of meeting him, or at least Jefferson sees it that why. Apparently some people think the little bastard is tolerable, down right charming even. Thomas doesn’t see the appeal, the arrogant fuck may be personable but he's got the attitude of a pissy house cat. Unfortunately the president didn’t see it that way and, unbeknownst to Thomas,  he placed the caribbean devil in his cabinet. Jefferson had come home for his years stay in france to find the little surprise perched on the edge of his desk like a gremlin freed from its cage. Honestly, Thomas thinks heatly, this country would fall to ruin were he not around. In just the time of his short absence, Washington hired a mangy rat in an ill fitting suit to manage their finances, and all its brought them is grief and indecision. Apparently things are loath to run smoothly while he’s gone. And what a shame that it, Thomas would have loved to visit France again, on a less business related venture, but alas, the good of the nation is his first priority, and if that means devoting every free breath he has to defend it from Hamilton’s grandiose ideas, so be it. 

Jefferson didn't start with such a sweltering pit of disdain for the man in the depths of his stomach. In the beginning, he was more then happy to let this boy with the sweaty palms and the bright, sharp eyes have his fun while he could. Back then, he wasn’t concerned with Alexander or his political intentions because Jefferson had been certain that he wouldn’t last long. Capitol Hill is no place for children without the heft of daddy’s bankaccount to back them, it's a cruel place that eats the young and the ambush with a ravenous maw. Thomas was sure it would devor Hamilton as well, that it would spit this young man back out as a pile of ashen bones, hollowed of their marrow. But what Jefferson had not anticipated was the boy’s sharp wit and even sharper tongue. With a dry mouth he watched Hamilton stun a room full of established, highly educated politicians into stupefied silence. The next week, he witnessed the young, angry man argue a colleague out of a job, and the week after that, he watched as Hamilton pushed his first fledgling bill through the senate with the shere manginutge of his voice. It wasn’t the capital that was consuming Hamilton, but rather Hamilton who was draining the life from the capital. 

Weeks passed quickly into a year, and still Hamilton buzzed through the halls like an impatient fly, implanting the eggs of his ideas into every dead eyed politician to cross his path. And he kept going, seizing a hefty portion of power for himself and sizable amount of prestige. Clipped to the president’s hip, he could do practically anything he wanted. Jefferson couldn’t let that stand, and so he took up arms against Alexander. He didn't allow himself to be swayed  by his fine feature, though, in completely discover, the rich golden tan of Hamilton’s skin reminds him of a lavish island banquet that he would love to sink his teeth into and claim his portion of flesh. Thomas pushed back against the tide of Alexander's influence until reason was no longer important. Eventually the source of confrontation grew trivial, but the feuding did slow Hamilton’s conquest for a time. And while things between them were cruel and vindictive, Jefferson had never expected Hamilton to have the gall to call him,  _ him _ , out in front of their peers. He’d thought there was scrap of respect between the two of them, and yet call him out is exactly what the younger man had done. 

Only hours ago, Hamilton drew up position on the congress floor and fired a bullet into the heart of Jefferson’s reputation. With his brows fixed at haughty angles, and filthy lips pulled tight in a tauntingly coy smirk, the war hero turned politician meticulously picked apart a plan he’s been crafting for nearly a year. Perfection torn asunder in less than an hour and Jefferson was left, burning in shame and embarrassment in his seat, not unlike he is now, hard cock rocking into the dry heat of his pillow. 

Thomas snarls and shakes, rutting against the fabric with vicious desperation. Its Hamilton’s fault, his fault that Jefferson has had to debase himself in this way, fucking himself into his pillow with sickening ethusamsim. He’d humiliated Thomas in front of his colleagues. Thomas left congress with a hundred eyes scorning him as he went, left with his insides trembling with rage. He tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep when he’s  burning  in skin that's far to hot. It was Hamilton, and his scathing, dark eyes that caused him to stoop so low, left him frenzied and desperate in the middle of the night. Thomas gasps, the rolling of his hips causing the wet head of his cock to drag along the folds of the pillowcase. His lungs flutter rapidly, like the wings of an insect, his breath comes in short, wet burst as a result, ragged, harsh. Sweat pours from his temples, rolls down his skin in rivulets, slicking the bedsheets as he presses his forehead to the mattress and tries to gains some sembles of control over his aching body . The way the damp coils of his hair stick to his cheeks and the back of his neck is suffocating, like fleece sweatshirts in summer, and he groans with discomfort and shame and lust.

_ “Is this helping?”  _ a snide voice in the back of his head asks him. Jefferson growls and grabs the sheets tighter in his shaking fist. Hamilton’s voice rings through his head like a bell, pompous and arrogant. “ _ Does this make you feel better Thomas?” _ he croons

Even if it's in his head, the sound of his name on Alexander’s lips sends a shiver racing down his spine not ulike and electric volt, and Thomas’ hips thrust forward. 

“Shut up.” Jefferson barks into the emptiness. The phantom Alexander chuckles.

What would Hamilton think if he saw him like this, what would he say? Would he laugh? Tease Jefferson for being so pathetic, taunt him, and tell him only lonely virgins hump their pillows with such earnest. Would he be disgusted? Revolted? Amused? Aroused?

He moans, a sound so wrecked he’s loath to admit he could have produced it, and  ruts frantically against the yielding mass between his trembling thighs. 

“ _ Is it that good?” _ There’s a smile curving at the edges of Hamilton’s words.  _ “Does that feel good Thomas?” _

Thomas curses into the mattress because did does feel good. The scratch of the fabric as it drags along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, the damp heat between them, a single blazing point of pleasure shoots sparks throughout his body. More smoke invades his mind, clouding his thoughts. 

_ “Tell me Thomas, how good does it feel.” _

And Thomas can still smell Alexander on him. His pervasive scent of black black coffee and pencil lead and hot ink fresh from the printer. And more sulfur. Jefferson is doused in the smell of him and from that haze emerges a vision.

With eyes clenched tight, Thomas glares down at the little immigrant pinned beneath him. Hamilton smile back at him devilishly, cheeks and neck flushed a violent shade of crimson even in the low light of the bedroom.

_ “How do I feel Thomas?” _ He asks this coyly, but Jefferson knows better than to think Hamilton is the least bit shy or embarrassed to be splayed out under him like this.

“ _ Hhg-” _

He imagines this is what he would look like. The younger man flat on his back, slick hair stuck to the column of his sweaty neck, stretched out on the mattress with his arms raised high above his head, back arching, chest heaving with ragged breath, fingers fumbling clumsily against the headboard, seeking some sort of grounding.  Alexander’s flesh is like a quarter mile hot, sandy Caribbean coastline and his exhalations are the breeze,  refreshing, and Thomas can taste salt on his lips. The tight cords of his muscles twitch just below skin the shade of molten gold, shimmering with sweat and arrogance. Thomas thinks vaguely of Apollo and how Alexander has the ferocity of the sun in his veins. There’s fire burning just behind Hamilton’s eyes, tongues of teasing flames in the depths of those dark orbs. As if to deify him further, his hair fans out around his head on, black on white sheets, like some twisted halo. His thighs are around Thomas’ hips, no doubt splayed wide and enticing, as if dare him to bite down, and Jefferson grips the pillow tighter and pounds into it as though it really is Hamilton he’s fucking.

Hamilton chokes on his breath, the slightest sound of pleasure catching on the tip of his tongue.  _ “Do you ready think I’d let you fuck me like this?” _

“No” Thomas rasps. He’s not foolish enough to think the real Hamilton would willingly give him this much control. He’s too prideful to be submissive. Were this real, were this not just Jefferson’s perverse, pathic fantasy, things would be quite different. He knows he's never been one to relinquish control either, has never had the pleasure of being ‘that guy’ when expectations for his performance are so high, and he knows that if this were to really happed, he would be the one splayed out on his back. He knows that that's not something he usually does but there’s a ferocity to Alexander that draws it out of him. It being the overwhelming desire to be owned, specifically by Alexander and his clever, crooked hands. But that’s a thought for another time, a different night where he’ll spread his legs wide, plunge two fingers into himself and think of Hamilton’s smug grin. Another time.

Instead, Thomas bites down hard on his lower lip and trusts into his pillow with the determination of a man trying to prove a point. 

“I know you would let me do this for you, but I’ll take any opportunity I can get to put you in your place ” he growls

“Oh?” Hamilton’s eyebrows creep steadily up towards damp hairline. “So that's it, is it. Put me in my place?.” He bares a toothy grin at Thomas and Thomas flushes, dropping his gaze to the man’s thin shoulder. 

“Do you think about that often Thomas, putting me in my place? You think about it at work?” Alexander probs breathlessly. “Would you have me bent over you desk? That’s where you want me, isn’t it.”

“Of course not.” Jefferson shoots back vinimently. 

Hamilton’s burning gaze catches his own. “Want me ass and sobbing into your desk, hard and begging for you” 

Thomas shakes his his head, damp, sweaty curls dragging along the back of his neck, catch on the underside of his chin. “No”

“You want me just like this” the younger man presses, and Thomas isn’t sure when his words stopped being suggestive taunts and instead started to echo Thomas’ own inner monologue. “You want  _ this _ ” 

“No I don’t”

“You want  _ me _ .” Alexander insists, those brilliant eyes of his alight.

And Thomas’ resolve slips through his curling fingers “Shut up.” He whispers. 

Suddenly Alexander is aching off the off the bed with a shout, back bowing, his arms flying out and slamming down hard on mattress with a ferocity that startles Thomas. It’s as if he’s been possesses. Hamilton throws his head make, crawls at the sheets and howls, loud, obscene moans ring in Jefferson’s ears and his gut lurches at the sound. Alexander is panting hard and wet, mewling and moaning under Thomas. He chokes down breath after harsh breath, babbling now.

“Thomas Thomas Thomas” he groans, turning huge, watery brown eyes up towards him. Pink lips part softly as they take in air unevenly. Wet eyelashes flutter. Hamilton moans desperately and clutches at the mattress. “Tho-mas, Tom,  _ ahhhhhha _ \- fuck Tommy please, fuck fu- uck fuck aaaa-!”

Thomas can’t help it, he whimpers and groans, whole body flushing at the desperation now coating Alexander’s crys. His need makes Jefferson weak, his knees shake and threatening to give out behind him as he imagines the sound. How Hamilton’s dry, pingy  voice would sound choking on his name like this. The way it would break and tremble as Thomas fucks him senseless into his bed, so thoroughly that the smell of his skin will soil the even the box springs. 

The muscles in his thighs bulge as he locks them tight around his pillow, straining as he forces it to stay steady so he can lose himself more thoroughly in this stain glass fantasy. Alexander is an assembly of distorted, jagged glass underneath him, shimming, sparkling panes all put together to form this  gorgeous picture. Thomas is fascinated by him and the curve of his spine. The way his fingers scrabbled for a hold on the to slick duvet, sweat glistening in the deep, desperate crease of his strong brow. Pink lips hang loose and open so soft cries of pleasure can slip for them more easily and the passionate red stain  of his cheeks and chest  make Jefferson’s head spin. The control almost makes him lightheaded, the power he wields over this monster of a man enthralls him. His gaze quickly fall away from the soft curves of Hamilton’s face and instead fixates firmly on the bouncing of his cock against his stomach. Each frantic thrust causes it to bob against Hamilton’s fluttering stomach. Precome smears across his rich skin, catching in the places where his stomach folds, slipping down his side whenever the squirming immigrant curved his spine up to met Thomas’ pistoning hips. Hamilton’s belly keeps rolling. Thomas doesn’t imagine that Alexander is a very fit man, not well built or muscular, the sharp protrusions of his ribs jut out distinctly whenever the demanding lust in his gut presses the air from Hamilton's lungs. The curve of each bone is visible under his copper skin and Thomas takes a  brief moment to watch the way they drag against his skin as Alexander tries to gather the air to speak. But then the younger man is moaning wantonly again, and all thoughts of bone and solid structures give way to fantasies of warm, malleable flesh and Jefferson focus once more at the prize between their sweat soaked bodies. 

“Fucking beautiful” he gasps, startling himself when the words ring aloud in his ears. Hamilton hums lightly in response.

He twists and writhes beneath Thomas, expressing what he wants where words have failed to do so properly. The muscles in Alexander’s arms clench and unclench as the waves of pleasure pulsing through him. His back aches of the bed obscenely. He’s never still, not even in Jefferson’s fantasy of him, never is he silent. Jefferson has a wild desire to pin Hamilton’s shaking shoulder to the bed and make his still. But reaching for his flesh would be like reaching through fog. Alexander's, presence here so tentatively it would shatter and Jefferson’s hands would meet only wet blankets, and wet blankets won’t help him finish like he need so desperately. So instead of grappling Hamilton like he so badly wishes he could, his hands paw at the at the rumpled sheets on either side of the younger man’s head until the covers are thrown from the mattress. He hears the elastic snap of the sheets springing free but can’t bring himself to really care because now the muscles in his his calves and upper arms are twitching and nothing matters outside of the blush creeping its way steadily down Alexander’s belly. 

“Touch me?” Hamilton says, and it sounds almost like a plea.   
Thomas traces the angles of his body with famished eyes “Yes”

“You want too” the other man breathes, and this time he states it like a bullet point on an agenda. States it with full conviction as though it were fact.

And,  _ fucking hell _ , does Thomas want to touch him so badly. He wants to sink his teeth into the creamy skin of Hamilton's inner thigh, right at the place where his dress pants have worn it smooth. His nose would slot so perfectly in the justice of his hips, in the crease where thigh connects to the trunk of the body. He would suck and bite until brown burns red with irritation, leaving hot welts in the wake of his wondering mouth. Maybe, if he bit hard enough he could pull the flesh from bones, leaving Hamilton as exposed and vulnerable as he had been. Maybe he could suck his bones clean of their marrow like they should have been years ago. Thomas wants to bury his nose in the thick patch of curling hair from which Alexander’s cock springs forth  and take the earthy scent into his lungs. He wants press his face to the spot until he can no longer smell the sulfur permeating the air and the shape tang of iron has fled his mouth. He wants to bite along the fantastic peeks of Hamilton’s quivering hips, burn marks into his golden stomach with his blazing maw, wants to lick srips up his chest until he’s pleading, claim the pulse in his neck as his own, to kiss along the curve of his jaw, wants to kiss his neck, his ears, his chest. Wants to kiss him.

The urge is overwhelming, causes his hips to sutter once more, or maybe that’s just because he’s so close now that little lights have started to dance at the corners of his vision. Maybe that’s what he’s been missing, Alexander's lips on his own. Resting at the peak of his pleasure as he is, Thomas doesn’t consider what a dangerous thought that might be. Instead, he stops resisting and swears the younger man’s name into his duvet, ruining it further. 

“Pathic” Alexander pants, now serving as the mouthpiece of Thomas’ thoughts once more. .

Thomas grunts and loses a sigh that almost,  _ almost _ could pass as a chuckle. “Perhaps, but at least I’ll be satisfied.”

“Will you really though, be satisfied?.” Hamilton inquires. 

“No” he shakes his head weakly. “But I can pretend that it’s enough.”

Alexander scoffs, taking up his sadistic, spiteful persona once more. “Please, stop trying to be so honest with yourself. Are you really content with just this, with just ‘enough’?”

“Enough is stable.”

“Enough is boring” the immigrant shoots back. “And you want more, you’re like me, enough is never enough.”

Its Jefferson’s turn to scoff. ‘And how do you know that?”

“We have the same eyes.” the answer is cryptic at best, and the way the younger man bites down on his lower lip after leaves Thomas’ mind swirling.

‘’Where do you come up with this ridiculous shit.” Jefferson retorts.

Alexander sort of shrugs. “I can’t say anything that you’re not already thinking.”

And Thomas is done now. He huffs out a smoke filled breath through his nose and doubles the pace of his thrusts to a full on sprint. “This is pointless, I’m arguing with myself.”

Alexander flashes him a smug grin. “Crazy people do that, you know.”

“Well I must be out of my goddamn mind if I find you attractive.” Jefferson snaps back in a straining voice.

“Too true” He breathes. Then “You’re close aren't you? Hurry up and finish already, before your rub your dick clean off.”

“Fuck you” Thomas counters, readjusting his sweaty, shaky grip on the loose bed sheets. The pressure is building up, like waves beating against a rocky coastline, and Jefferson is no more than a piece of craig clinging desperately to the side of the cliff.    
Hamilton barks out an airy laugh. “You don’t have the  _ balls _ .”

The muscles in Jefferson’s jaw clench tight, he fucks himself with earnest into his pillow. The joints of the bed creck under the abuse. It doesn’t take him much more. He thinks of Alexander breathless below him and humps the bed in a manic fever until he blows his load, utterly soaking his pillow case.  It takes a few minutes of senseless breathing for the scratch of damp fabrice on sensitive skin to become unpleasant, and by his kaleidoscope fantasy has ebbed away with the tide. He’s left, sweat soaked and gasping on his mattress with a damp lump tucked between his trembling thighs. Suddenly he remembers how empty this room with its wide windows really is, how still and suffocatingly quite.

Jefferson groans, collapsing fully onto his stomach while shame and sweat drip from the tip his nose. He wipes them both away on the bed sheets. He’s spent,but not so much so that he thinks he could sleep with the pillow digging unkindly into his stomach as it is, so he rolls unceremoniously to his back and throws an arm over his burning cheeks. The city outside is too quiet, he wishes Alexander were  here to distract him. He could drag Thomas to his chest and pick apart his tasteless choice of paint for the wall and then maybe finally Thomas could sleep. 

A hollowness fills the Virginian’s stomach. A hungry kind of hollow, like when one is resting on the verge between famished and so starved you start to feel nauseous. In truth, Jefferson feels too sick to sleep now. So with some coxing of his weary limbs, he swings his legs over the side of his mattress and staggers to his feet. Not bothering with cloths, he stanches up the pillow from his bed and wanders naked through his loft until he reaches the kitchen.

The first thing his does is bin the ruin pillow, he can alway get another. Then he fumbles around in the dark until his fingers curl around the smooth neck of a wine bottle. The curve of it familiar, comforting  and welcome. He should have just gone straight to the booze and skipped the messy bit that left his bed in shambles.  Jefferson supposes that it’s too late now. By some miracle he manages to scrounge up the bottle opener and pulls the cork from the bottle with a pop. Then back to his room he goes, taking swings as he feels his way through the dark and settles back down on his bed.

Laying there flat on his back, he steals sloppy sips of wine to pricy to let dribble wastefully down his chin like it is and stares blankly up at the ceiling of his so very empty room. It must be close to two in the morning by now, he can feel the hands of his internal clock dragging along as sunrise draws near. He has no intention of getting out of bed when his alarm blares in a few hours. If Hamilton saw him would he be able to tell? Would the edge of apprehension in Jefferson’s eyes give him away? Realistically, that’s ridiculous but Thomas can’t find it in himself to risk it. He’ll just call in sick, tell the front desk he has a terrible migraine  and spend the whole day in bed. Maybe alcohol will wash away the image of Alexander pinned benight him. Maybe it’ll drown all of those dangerous, needy thoughts. 

Jefferson takes another swing. 

 


End file.
